When the lad is fit to be moved, we’ll bring him home. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ’ Triumph leapt in Gerald’s chest. He pulsed and thrust as he released himself into her body.
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